


the sky was all purple

by serein



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M, Phone Calls, driving au, family au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 13:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7053637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serein/pseuds/serein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tired drive back home results in phone calls and a darkening night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sky was all purple

**Author's Note:**

> enjoy. title is from prince's "1999".

The shards of light from the shattered sun scatter over the wide sky, and the cumulonimbi are somewhat reminiscent of cotton candy. The color wheel up above is blurring into a shade of lavender, the pink fading slowly into blue, and Connor cannot resist looking out his window every few seconds at the empyrean above. Cruising down the Californian freeway after a week and a half of being away from home, he's a brutal liter of tired at seventy-miles-per-hour. Laurel had asked him to take this stupid job up north, and by some irrational force of nature, he had complied consciously. And so he had gone the two-hundred-something miles away from Oliver, and their six-year-old daughter, Mia, and San Francisco, and any peace and tranquility he thought he had finally reached in his life. God, his week had sounded like some kind of sick work-abuse infographic - 16 hour days, virtually no sleep, no time at all for calling home, hundreds of water-logged pages of court documents rifled through. He's free now, though, and he's biting his lip, trying not to break down just from the relief of being done with the freaking case and _winning_ , too.

His phone's ringing, and he picks up without looking at the contact name very carefully.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Con." It's Laurel.

"Hi."

"How," she asks, and he can already see her fidgeting with her hands, pinning her smartphone between her ear and her shoulder, "are you doing? Charlie called me and told me you won, and apparently you didn't fuck anyone the entire weekend."

"Yeah, Laurel, I didn't fuck anyone the entire weekend, because I'm married, and have a child, and I was also pretty fucking busy." Connor replies tersely, vaguely annoyed at Laurel boxing him into any leftover perception she had of him from college all those years ago.

"Woah," she replies, "calm down. I'm just saying, like, you're not known for being more than four miles away from your partner and not fucking up some cute guy you met fifteen seconds ago."

He rolls his eyes, and changes lanes carefully. "I'm not in my early twenties anymore, Laurel. Plus, you and I both know how much I love Oli. I couldn't do something shitty like that to him."

"That's true," she replies. There's a silence, and Connor hears the faint ghost of a man's voice in the background and the sizzle of a pan.

"Who is that? And why are you cooking him dinner? Have you found another boyfriend, Laurel? Honestly, you give much such a hard time about being a who-"

"Shh. It's just this guy I met at the new firm. We've been, I don't know, messing around."

"For how long has this been going on?" Connor asks, only partly paying attention at this point.

"Six weeks, I think."

Connor bites his lip before continuing. "Should I tell Frank, or are you going to?"

"If you do, I'm going to tell Doucheface you're having a dinner party next Wednesday, and he'll probably fly to your house all the way from Florida."

"As long as he doesn't bring Bonnie, then I'm okay with that." Connor comes back at her.

Laurel scoffs over the phone, and Connor hears her open the fridge. "You'd be okay with Doucheface's fratboy mentality, even at his ripe age of 30-something?"

"I mean, if this means I can watch Frank's insides turn to a hot vat of burning fondue and your disappearance off the face of the earth, yeah, I'll tolerate his drunkenness for a couple of hours."

"Touché." Another silence fills the gap, and Connor listens to the faint chopping of what is assumed to be some vegetable. "What are you making, Laurel?"

"Oh, nothing. Russian stew."

He feigns surprise. "I thought you were a strong Latina woman that cooked ethnic food exclusively!"

"Russian is an ethnicity, so fuck off."

"Is he cute, at least?" Connor's never been partial to any of Laurel's past partners, so he doubts he'll have to fight off any urges in his pants when he meets this new kid on the block. Michaela's boyfriends, on the other hand...

"I mean," Laurel replies, monotonously, "moderately so. He plays soccer."

"Wow, what a hunk. Has he scored on _your_ goal yet?" Connor can already picture her cringing. 

"God, no," she replies. "Why, do you want him to be on _starting_ lineup? I thought you were married."

"I mean, he plays soccer."

"You're such a slut."

"You know I'm kidding. God, you sound like Waitlist at this point."

"What's that supposed to mean? Wes doesn't slutshame like I do."

"You're such a hypocrite."

"I know."

Connor hears the man's voice again, indistinct, mumbling.

"What's he saying?"

"I can't repeat that."

"Is he naked already?"

"Why would you think that?"

Connor chuckles. "Remember that one time you called me through Hangouts or whatever because you didn't feel like dialing me, but you didn't realize that it was a video call, and I got a _really_ unwarranted but inexplicably nice view of Frank's ass?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"OK, whatever you say, sister. Denial is not just a river in Egypt."

She groans. "I'm glad your jokes are still connected to the WiFi, Connor."

"You're very welcome."

There's a pause, and in that sliver of time, the INXS album that's been playing on the car stereo stops and the machine switches to the next disc - Tracy Chapman's eponymous debut album. The strummed guitar plays over a couple of seconds, and then the vocals come in, mellow and clear. It's Oliver's music - probably accidentally left in Connor's car from the last time they roadtripped to Arizona - but Connor finds himself humming along to the first track.

"Laurel?"

"Yeah?" Her voice seems distant, as if she's focused on something else. _Maybe naked man has gotten more naked,_ Connor thinks to himself.

"Have you ever wondered what life would have been like if we had stayed in Philadelphia?"

"Yeah," she replies, voice still far away. "I think about it all the time. I think about _her_ ," Laurel says, and the way Laurel says it sends chills down his spine because it feels too _damn accurate_ in comparison to his own thought process.

"I'm so glad we left," Connor says, voice careful.

"Same. I...let's not talk about it, okay, Con?" He hears her swallow carefully, and she continues. "Let's not relive all of that. Our lives now..."

"They're so much better, yeah."

"Yeah. Hey, I've got to go. I'll talk to you later, Con."

"Is your new boyfriend that hungry for a blowjob?"

"Shut up."

"Okay, love."

"See you, Connor. Congrats on your win. Have a safe drive home, alright?"

"Yeah, for sure. And thanks."

"Bye, Con."

"Bye, Laurel."

She hangs up before he fumbles to press the end button. The highway's still a brutal sense of clear, and the sky above is darkening quickly, the purples and blues and pinks melting together into a stew of lonely warmth, a soup of satisfaction and wistfulness. The numbers on the car dial reads _7:49_ , and Connor is trying his best not to call Oliver just yet.

"Talkin' Bout a Revolution" ends, and the second track on the Chapman album starts up. He's never admitted it to Oliver, but "Fast Car" is a guilty pleasure, and he starts singing the lyrics softly as soon as Tracy Chapman's voice comes in, hollow and melancholy.

_"You got a fast car_

_I want a ticket to anywhere_

_Maybe we can make a deal_

_Maybe together we can get somewhere..."_

Connor sniffles, and he realizes that he's suddenly very cold, goosebumps already raising on his forearms. Glancing down at the passenger seat next to him, he reaches for his coat, discarded about seventy-five miles back. It's the black one that Michaela gave him for his birthday two years ago, and suddenly thoughts of her cloud his mind. It occurs to him that he should call her, as they've had this ongoing running competition for years at who can win the most of anything - grocery store prizes, cases, Chuck-E-Cheese Tickets - between the two of them and she'd definitely feign bitterness at his victory. Speed-dialing her, he reaches a dead end - her voicemail, filled with the faux sophistication he's seen her wear for years.

"Hello, you have reached the voicemail box of Michael Pratt. If you are in need of legal attention, please leave your name, number, and situation. If you are in need of social attention, kindly leave your name and the circumstances of the event, and I will get back to you as soon as possible. If you are Connor Walsh, please hang up, because I am far too professional to be dealing with amateurs like yourself. Thank you, and have a good day."

The monotone lady's voice comes on.

"At the tone, please leave a message or hang up."

_Beeeeeep._

"Hey, Mich, it's Con. Um, I just wanted to let you know that I won another fucking case, so looks like we're tied up even now. I miss you a lot. I hope you're doing okay romantically." 

He swallows, and continues. "You haven't texted me for a while, which is probably good in terms of your romances, but probably not good in that now you're on my mind way more than I need you to be. I've come to the realization that you're my best friend, and I love you a lot, even though I fucking hate you for bullying me all the time. Grow up, Michaela. God, I love you. Um, bye. I'll talk to you later. Good night."

He's breathless by the time he hangs up, and the Tracy Chapman song is ending, and he's so close to crying he can feel the tears welling up, so close that the angry stormclouds are fermenting in his tear ducts and ready to release hell upon the world. He misses Oliver, and Michaela, and the puppy, and everyone, and he is _fucking tired_ , and he is about to give up on life as much as Tracy Chapman is about to give up on hers.

Eyes refocusing on the darkening road, with his headlights switched on, he tries to pull out the Tracy Chapman CD out of the car stereo without looking at it, because sometime during Michaela's voicemail a handful of cars have appeared in his rearview mirror. Their headlights are bright, but far enough so that it's no bother to him as a driver.

The rest of the way home, the headlights from the other drivers follow him, and he himself eventually catches up to a couple pairs of red taillights. He follows those reddish eyes home, singing along softly to a new album he picked up at the local library last tuesday - MØ's _No Mythologies to Follow_. He yawns occasionally, and exhaustion slowly sets in as the night turns into a murky shade of black. 

It's pitch dark when he finally pulls up to his driveway, a narrow little path that he always has to be careful about because of his mirrors. Parking the car a little sloppily, which he knows he'll probably regret tomorrow when he and Oliver try to commute to work, he fumbles through his pockets looking for his house keys (which are still oddly unattached to his car keys, to the annoyance of many a boyfriend in the past). Accidentally sliding his fingers too quickly over the jagged edge, he winces in pain and pulls the key ring out carefully. Sliding the dull bronze into the keyhole, he turns quietly and cracks the door open. It's dark inside too, but he can make out that the small light above the stove in the kitchen is still on. Escaping the softly chirping crickets outside, Connor steps inside and starts pulling off his shoes, closing the door with a gentle _swoosh_. He hears chewing, somehow, from the kitchen - perhaps the silence is so thick that even the smallest sounds are audible, or maybe he's just imagining it.

He puts down his untied left shoe after finishing with the right one and steps into the house, wiggling his toes slightly after being in dress shoes for so long (he swears he fell asleep at least two days in a row in full garb just from pure exhaustion). Quietly, he pads over to the kitchen area, rounding the corner. There he finds Oliver, leaning against the counter in pajama pants and an old grey shirt that Laurel had bought him from god-knows-where. He's eating a bowl of cereal, Corn Flakes, in fact, milk and everything, and Connor can tell he's avoiding his gaze.

Slowly, Connor comes towards his husband, and when he's just six inches away, he stops. "Hi."

He stops chewing. "Why didn't you call me that you were coming home today?"

"I'm sorry."

Oliver meets his gaze, and he puts the cereal down. His eyes soften, and he breaks into a small smile. "It's okay. I just wanted to be ready for you."

"I missed you."

The kitchen seems to disappear, and it feels like just Oliver, and Connor, and the less-than-six inches of space between them. "I missed you too."

"I won, baby, I won."

Oliver nods. "Good."

Connor sniffles, and turns away. "I love you," he half-says, half-thinks-he-says.

"What?" His husband approaches him from behind and wraps his arms around Connor. "What did you say, Con?"

"I said that I love you." Connor whispers into the darkness.

"I love you too. Try not to wake Mia."

"Has she been doing well without me?" Connor inquires, softly.

"Of course. She'll be happy to see you tomorrow, though."

There's a gap of silence, and Connor's almost paralyzed by how warm Oliver is against his back. "I'm so glad to be home."

"Me too. I'm glad you're home too."

Connor sniffles. "Did you ever think we'd be here, where we are?"

"No. But I guess that's just how life works, Con. That's just how everything plays out."

"I'm glad."

Oliver doesn't respond, and starts rocking his partner in his arms.

"Oliver?"

"Yeah," he responds, voice muffled in Connor's shoulder.

Connor opens his mouth, and then closes it slowly, unable to formulate what he wants to say. "Nothing."

"Okay."

Time almost stops, or at least it does for Connor, and as his vision starts to blur, sleep overtaking him, he says it one more time, because he believes in it so heavily. "I love you."

-

**Author's Note:**

>  _come on, my love, let’s set the world on fire_  
>   
> 
> \- i hope you enjoyed; thank you so much for reading. i love comments & any kudos is appreciated.  
> \- quick thank you to charlotte & mavis for your never-ending support and brilliance  
> \- you can find me on tumblr at album-fragmentation.tumblr.com  
> \- have a good night, lovelies


End file.
